


Baby They're Burning all the Sinners, and that Just Happens to Include Us

by Spice_n_Sugar



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Demon Shane Madej, Demon!Shane, F/M, Lowkey Obi origin story??, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Shane's cat Obi is present, Witch!Reader, demon shane, it isn't anything too wild but still, more tags to be added later, this took me sooo long, tw: mentions of blood, tw: semi-graphic descriptions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 15:24:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20914310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spice_n_Sugar/pseuds/Spice_n_Sugar
Summary: Shane, for his part, seems a bit put off. He almost looks wounded, and you suppose you could see why. Ryan went from begging to talk to Shane to brushing off his apology. You’d analyze this more, too, if Shane wasn’t turning to face you.Well.He certainly remembers you.





	Baby They're Burning all the Sinners, and that Just Happens to Include Us

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being a lot longer than I meant for it to be. I have nothing to say for myself, just that I hope this isn't as bad as I keep thinking it is, and that I hope you enjoy.

l.

  
  


You knew, days before it was decided officially, that it would happen. It was simply a matter of time, and now that time was up.

With the rustling of the wind, and the warning caws of a local murder of crows, you knew what was coming. And, unpredictably, you were ok with it. You accepted your fate quickly and peacefully, and you continued going about your business. You finalized all that you could. 

On March 26, 1737, the townsfolk of Marblehead Massachusetts make their way into the still woods beside their town, ignorant of the cold in their determination.

Their determination to kill a witch.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


When they come, you do not feel as ready as you initially had in the previous days. Your tranquility melts off of you like excess wax from a candle, and you are gripped by panic.

You want to be ready. You are not.

You have too much left unfinished, too many things you have yet to settle. At your feet, your familiar, Obi, anxiously criss-crosses between your legs, the orange fur along his spine standing up straight. In your hand you clutch raw meat, bits of rabbit you had sliced to feed to Obi as a treat before everything falls to chaos.

You toss the pieces down as fast as the cat can eat them, and you hope that it will last him for however long he will need.

There is a gentle rumble in the dirt that carries into your home’s steady wooden walls, and you shiver. The fireplace has been put out in preparation for what is to come, and with the breezes of early spring and the cool darkness of nightfall, you begin to shake. But you will not be cold for long.

Through the window comes a distant light that flickers on the walls. Deep waves of orange and flashes of yellow. 

Fire.

They will be here soon, you know. They will be wielding lit torches and ropes to bind you.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps it will just be the torches. There will be fear of touching you, of what the contact could do to them. In their eyes you are a curse. You are a beast. You are unholy. That cannot stand.

It has been a long time since they have chosen to burn a witch alive. Public hangings are most common, now. But it seems that tonight may just be different. You have not been accused of being a witch. You do not need a trial to determine whether or not you are innocent. It is not, and never was, a question.

You are a witch. You were born to be, and your remains will join the earth as such.

You are a witch, and you are going to die for it.

Obi finishes the rabbit, and stills at your feet. You know he understands what will happen tonight. You know he can feel the dirt of the forest tremble with the men’s footsteps. It will not be long now.

And, you are right, of course. The flames grow brighter, distant enough to look collective rather than appearing as the individual torches that they are. It is sunshine at night. It is light where it shouldn’t be. It is your death.

Obi cowers, his tail curled as tight to his side as he can get it. In silence, you wait.

But not for long.

The mob of people is shockingly voiceless. There is no jeering or loud proclamations of sin. There is no muttering of malcontent, and there are no spoken commands to set your home alight.

There is only three firm knocks on your door. 

You step closer to it, bathing in the firelight through the window and breathing the scent of smoke. The door is not locked, and you wonder if they will bother to try opening it themselves.

Three more knocks. No accompanying words.

You are going to die, but you don’t have to die hiding.

Around your ankles slithers something warm; your familiar, most likely.

Only, no. This is hairless. This is smooth, leathery. It tightens, and you would scream if not for the hand that slaps over your mouth, large and calloused.

You are pliant, and do not struggle. There is no fight to be had tonight.

A hiss of your name in your ear reveals what should have been obvious immediately. The hand moves.

“Shane?”

His tail uncoils from around your legs and you turn to him, your back facing the door, and consider an embrace.

“We need to leave. Now. They are-”

“Going to burn me. Yes.” You take a deep breath.

Shane’s eyes are wild, hair mussed around horns cast in the flickering light from outside, and wings twitching. He is agitated and antsy, feral with fear and concern for you, and were the mood not so somber, you would feel flattered.

As it is, his reaction only adds weight to your shoulders. You should have contacted him the moment you had known. This is no way to say goodbye to someone like him. This is no way to say goodbye to _ anyone _ . 

This is no way to die.

“Shane, I am going to let them.” 

You are set on this terrible, awful choice. You are a bird who has made a home in a nest of thorns. You are an animal in a cage, subdued and without struggle, because you would not be in this situation if you were not supposed to be, and because this is what is meant to happen, you will take it. There are worse things than death.

“No, you are not.” His tail is flicking and lashing, and Obi scrambles; whether to avoid it or chase it, you are not sure.

Shane is giving you that look of his, his normally sleepy brown eyes focused intently on you and flashing black. His tail continues to whip, seemingly on its own accord, and Obi leaps to bat at it. Shane does not even look down.

“I am a witch, and this is what happens to witches. I have nowhere to go, and even if I did, it is too late now.”

It is not really that you want to die. You have a great many things you were looking forward to; things to experience and learn. The times are far from great, but the world has plenty to offer still, and you were eager to accept. However, it simply is not meant to be. You were a little too open about your craft, and a little too reclusive to avoid the conjecture of the townspeople. Carelessness and witchcraft mix as well as oil and water, and you know this. You dug your grave, and now you had to lie in it.

_ You built your house, now burn in it. _

“It does not have to happen like this!” Shane argues, and fury is not the word to describe his tone. Exasperated, perhaps, or maybe vexed. But he is not angry.

Three more knocks at the door, accompanied by the voice of a man filled with fear and hate of the most irrational quality.

“Come out, witch!”

In your peripheral vision, you can see the focus of the people move from your front door to your window. You have yet to curse or harm them, and it is emboldening them.

Obi hisses, back curving into an arch, and you allow yourself to detach from the weight and reality of this moment to lean down and pet him. It is soothing, for both of you. Shane, however, is not soothed by this.

“I can help you! You just need to let me.”

Outside, the men are yelling. There is a crackling sound and a swell of heat behind you, and you feel your feigned serenity and acceptance of fate leave your body. Your heart picks up, jumping out of rhythm and into frenzy.

_ Burn the witch _ , they chant, because that is what it will take to satisfy their hatred and fear.

The fire grows fast. It overtakes the wall in moments, and moves farther on into your home. Obi scrabbles underneath the nearest chair, and although you wish to call to him, your lungs fill with smoke and push any and all words back down with it.

_ Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. _

Amongst the quickly growing smoke and Shane’s rapidly cloaked figure in a light, colored not orange or red or yellow or any fiery color, really. Two pale purple lights, that move closer and  _ oh, oh no. _

“Sh-ane.” You cough. You can’t see, eyes shut tight and spilling unwillful tears. Somewhere along the wall, a shelf crackles with heat, and the sound of glass breaking mere feet away adds to the cacophony of awful sounds.

You blindly crawl towards it, hands frantic to find just what possessions of yours are now ruined.

_ It does not matter. You die here tonight. None of your things are yours any longer. You are not even yours. _

Your hand plants into hellishly contrasting mix of hot glass shards and soft feathers, and you waste no time picking up as little glass and as many feathers as you can, hugging them to your chest and gasping, gasping, gasping for air that you will not find.  _ How did the flames pick up this fast? _

You feel them on your shoulders then, his hands, and though you can’t see him, you turn and force out the only words you can.

“Please- don’t! I can’t-” but you can feel it happening, the pull in the pit of your stomach, spreading steadily over you and turning into something more hollow.

“No! Shane! O-Ob-” and that is it.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


When you wake, you know everything that took place and none of it.

You are somewhere warm, on soft sand. Water laps a few yards away, slapping with a gentle force that tells you the tides are calm.

It is the ocean. You know this, by the scent of salt, and by a simple, inner understanding.

You do not know why, but the  _ how _ of the situation is apparent. Shane.  _ Shane. _

And then, it hits you in waves much more forceful than those of the sea beside you.

Shane had gotten you out of the house. You are alive, most certainly, and it is incredibly likely that he is too. You are wise enough to know that saving your home and possessions was an unimportant facet of the situation, and you are thankful that Shane had done what he had.  _ But what about Obi? _

You do not think about it. You very  _ forcefully _ do not think about it. Instead, you plant your hands into the sand beside you- it stings it stings  _ why does it sting _ \- and push yourself up. A hardly noticeable weight flutters from your chest, and you do not think it is the weight of relief.

Indeed, it is not.

On the beach before you lay a bundle of large and small feathers, white and gold flecked and ruffled and stained with bloody patches like your fingers. A small breeze comes through, and they drift across the sand.

You lunge without thinking, one of your blood crusted hands slapping down onto the already damaged feathers and dragging them back to you.

A bad idea, to be sure.

A sharp pain commences in your side from the movement, and you drop back onto the sand, the feathers pulled safely against your chest.

And you sob.

You are shaking before you know it, and the tears start coming. 

You let them, which is an awful, terrible, unavoidable choice, because your lungs begin burning with every gasping intake of air, and your fingers tense around the feathers and break open the wounds covering your hands. Your stomach is empty and is making itself apparent, and the lapping of waves on the shore and the streams of tears on your face are reminding you that you’ll need to find a source of freshwater, or you will die, and fast.

But for now, you continue to let the tears fall and the sobs rack your chest, because starting is so much easier than stopping.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


You do get up, eventually, but it is not easy. You are sore all over, and beaten down in a way that is equally physical and emotional. 

Your hands are caked in thick, dried blood and grainy sand, and though you know better than to wash wounds in salt water, you are sorely tempted to, because  _ this does not feel good. _

There is sand in your hair and cloak, too, and you do not even bother to shake it out. Instead, you allow it to cascade down your back and neck with every step. The sun is going down, and you would like to stay on the beach and sleep, sleep, sleep away the aches, but the worst pain is yet to come, and can be avoided by finding a water source.

Step after step, you trek away from the cooling sands and nearer to the semi-distant woods. Whether or not you find water, there will at least be shelter, and that is just another thing on the long list of things you need.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


You find water in the form of a thin, trickling stream. 

Though you are unsure if you will be able to get back up, you crouch. Your knees dig into the dirt, and you rest the feathers beside you to free your hands. 

Cooling swallows of water rinse away a good portion of the dry burning in your throat, and you soon have to stop for air.

You are still hungry, and it would be in your best interest to begin looking for edible plants you recognize. But for now, you lay back on your side and clutch the filthy feathers close to you once more, and drift off, hoping that the splashes of the stream will keep the dreams of fire at bay.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


Months pass. Tiring months, that you spend doing your best to build the beginnings of a new home. There’s no population here, wherever here is, but there is a lot of unutilized resources. A lot of wood, a lot of water, and a lot of edible plants. You busy yourself with studying any and all new flora and fauna, and settling in.

You are lonely here, and you miss Obi, and you miss Shane. But this is better than death and always will be.

By the time you have your new home sufficiently set up (which took quite a bit of time, being alone and having no tools), it has been nearly a year. The house is small, and undecorated. Though, you make that your next task.

You build a small shelf to hold food, water, and the feathers.

  
  


ll.

  
  


_ It is a glorious morning. There is golden, radiant, tingly-warm sunlight filtering through the leaves of the oak trees surrounding your home, and you are delighted. Summer is finally beginning to show itself. _

_ You hear Obi bounce along behind you, swishing steps in the wet leftover leaves of fall. He meows excitedly, and you smile, knowing he will not go far. Naturally, you are right. As soon as he sees you beginning to trek out farther, he begins leaping over piles of leaves, picking up speed to remain at your heels. _

_ _

_ It is truly a lovely day. You have a feeling that crops will grow well this year, a feeling you know from experience will be correct. This can be a good year. This  _ will  _ be a good year. _

__   
  


_ ~~~~~~~ _

__   
  


_ You find him half submerged in water. _

_ _

_ Feathers and weak flames are scattered near the small crater his landing created, and slowly but surely, water from the pond is leaking down into the depression to join him. His mouth is open in a silent scream, and blood is everywhere. Deep brown mud and murky, stale water are staining wine red around him. You do not think he notices. _

_ _

_ In golden rays of sunshine, he twitches, the rags he wears hardly covering his body. A sweet, gentle breeze passes through the clearing around the pond, and a full-bodied tremble runs through him.  _

_ _

_ You swallow, and direct your attention to a few of his more important features, besides his brutal injuries.  _

_ _

_ His wings, for one. _

_ _

_ What you imagine had been quite impressive attributes before his… fall; are now a nasty sight. Patchy and quickly shedding, with burnt and darkening pink skin visible. _

_ _

_ The feathers themselves are gorgeous. Many are scattered around, and you bend to pick one up.  _

_ _

_ The white of the feather is stained in splotches all over, with blood and dirt, you assume. On the untarnished patches, it is pure white in color, with small flecks of gold. _

_ _

_ It is beautiful. It is angelic. _

_ _

_ You drop the feather, and move forward. _

_ _

_ The man is lying face down. His wings are stretched across the ground, and twitching every once in a while.  _

_ _

_ With every step you take, your feet squish more in the mud. He has yet to acknowledge the sound, and you wonder belatedly if he can even hear. _

_ _

_ Obi keeps his distance now, staying by the feather you had previously held. He watches you with curiosity, tail flicking, but he does not move. _

_ _

_ You crouch, inches away from touching the man (angel?). He is perfectly still, and though you know he is not dead, the thought still nags at you. _

_ _

If not dead, then dying _ , you think. _

_ _

_ His skin is pale, though not enough for you to compare to his wings. It is a peaceful shade of cream, and decently smooth. His limbs are long, as is, well, just about all of him.  _

_ _

_ On his head, a patch of mussed brown hair sits. Most of it is plastered down to his head, muddy water drying it in clumps. Nestled in his hair and dripping blood, are two broken halves of a golden circle, connected at his skull and split directly at the top. A halo. A  _ broken _ halo. _

_ _

_ You lean forward, and gently place a hand on the bare skin of his back. _

_ _

_ His neck cranes up, and he screams, wings flaring, then falling closed. His head drops back into the mud, haunting sobs still falling from his lips. Birds vacate nearby trees in a frenzy, caws and chirps of warning bouncing around the clearing until they’re gone. _

_ _

_ You splay your fingers, slowly, and are taken aback by how hot his skin is. He’s burning with fever, the kind that would mean death for any human. _

_ _

_ Obi meows a short distance away, and you remove your hand from the man. His fingers twitch and clench in the mud, and you feel a pang of sympathy. _

__   
  


_ ~~~~~~ _

__   
  


_ When he wakes again, it is brief. He takes a few swallows of the water you offer him, and weeps silently. His wings remain tightly folded against his back, and the feathers keep falling. _

_ _

_ When the man falls asleep once more, you empty a vase, and neatly collect them, small and large, from the floor. You find that gently rinsing the feathers washes them quite well (much better than it would had they been regular feathers), and the vase holds them nicely. _

__   
  


_ ~~~~~~ _

__   
  


_ He wakes more frequently in the night than in the day, you find. He groans in his sleep and wakes screaming, in an agony that shakes your home at its foundation.  _

_ _

_ Over time, his wings shed the last of their feathers, and bare rapidly darkening skin. They are less like those of a bird and more akin to that of a bat’s. On the day he drops the final feather, a tail shows up. Neither of you knows how. Neither of you particularly want to. _

_ _

_ His horns curve and twist, as well; though at an incredibly slow pace. They taper towards the tips, and begin to lose their golden hue. They fade into a dusty brown, and though they were much more eye-catching when they appeared as the broken halo that they are, you quite like how they turned out. You can still see indentations of where the cracks from his halo splitting have healed; veering, weaving gray lines that race halfway down his horns like snakes after a field mouse. _

_ _

_ As he heals, he wakes more and more often.  _

_ _

_ The first few weeks are the hardest. He shakes and groans in his sleep, and upon waking, has no appetite. You see his ribs easily through his skin when he gives you his borrowed robes to wash, and his eyes flick around the room constantly, never settling on any one thing. _

_ _

_ His skin is splattered with patches of pink; burns turning to scar tissue. Before his horns begin healing, they are jagged and crusted with blood. Many a time you slice your fingers rinsing and scrubbing them. His wings heal faster, but they aren’t pretty. Scabbed and several irritated shades of red, pink, and brown, they flesh out, and continue to break and bleed as they do. Shane spends nearly an hour every night laying flat on his stomach, wings spread as far as he can bear, so you can rub a salve on them. _

_ _

It will be worth it, it will be worth it, it will be worth it, _ you think, as the vibrations of his trembling carry through your hands and up into your arms. You know he is biting his tongue, or else he would be screaming. He never would have  _ stopped _ screaming. _

_ _

_ After one of these such hours, you hand him a piece of parchment and a quill pen, and ask him his name. He eyes the parchment warily, but accepts the pen, and slowly, achingly moves his arm into a position to write. _

_ _

Shane.

__   
  


_ ~~~~~~ _

__   
  


_ You are right. It is worth it in the end. _

_ _

_ His wings, once healed, stretch farther than his angel wings ever had, and they, obviously, do not moult.  _

_ _

_ His tail and horns are similar to one another, in the sense that neither really do much. Though both you and he theorize that they represent some sort of status, you have no idea just how that works. For now, they are nothing more than decoration.  _

_ _

_ As weeks turn to months, his sleeping and eating habits level out, and he begins to speak, one small croak at a time. _

_ _

_ “Thank you.” Are his first words to you. He does not elaborate. He does not need to. _

_ _

_ You are behind him, delicately investigating how the burns beneath his wings have healed, and you are not quite sure what to say in return. What really is there to say?  _

_ _

_ You skip the ‘you are welcome’. _

_ _

_ “Your voice sounds better than I was expecting.” You begin. You desperately want to dip your hands into one of your many salves to distract yourself, but you have no reason to. There is some scarring, but it is minimal, and nearly fully healed. He will be fine. “But, it could still improve. I mixed herbs for tea earlier, and I have one for soothing sore throats. If you would like, I could…?” _

_ _

_ You allow the sentence to drop, and Shane promptly folds his wings shut. He turns easily to face you. _

_ _

_ “Yes, that sounds nice.” He smiles, and it is not the bloody mouth of angel in the mud, screaming and shaking and dying that you see, but rather the mouth of a demon. A demon who is content with where he is. A demon whose voice is far too hoarse and thick for him to properly speak. A demon who, in your eyes, has done no wrong. _

_ _

_ “Wait here, then. I will make it.” _

_ _

_ You move across the room for a kettle to put over the fire, and upon finding one, fill it with water and tea. It will be done shortly, and while you wait, you serve Obi his dinner and re-join Shane on the wool rug in the living room. He is sprawled there, idly wrapping his tail around one of his wrists, and though you know he can sense you approaching, he doesn’t look up. _

_ _

_ The house is warmed by the fireplace. It smells faintly of the smoke that is currently filtering through the chimney, and now, like brewing tea. _

_ _

_ You sit beside Shane, folding your legs comfortably and joining him in the silence. It is not hard, this is how it normally is. _

_ _

_ Only, Shane seems antsy. He doesn’t seem all too content to be quiet anymore. _

_ _

_ “So.” _

_ _

_ You can tell it was intended to be the start of a sentence, but he wisely doesn’t try to continue. It was more of a squawk than a word, and he is clearly embarrassed over it. _

_ _

_ The silence between you commences, with the only sounds being Obi smacking his food and the fireplace crackling softly. You listen more intently, to see if you can hear the kettle bubbling. You can. _

_ _

_ When the tea is served and you have both had the chance to get your fill, you clear your throat. He copies. _

_ _

_“So?” you begin. He chuckles and smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling, and _oh. How nice is that?

_ _

_ “Y-es. So.” He continues smiling, and takes another drink of his tea, slurping it dramatically and drawing a chuckle from you.  _

_ _

_ You wait a moment, and he finishes. _

_ _

_ “I mean it. Thank you, for all of this.” He sets his mug down, and he is still smiling, but it is a little too sad of a smile for you to appreciate it. “I-I thought I was going to-” he pauses to cough and clear his throat once more, “die.” _

_ _

_ You flinch. If anyone understands just how close to death he was, it is you, and yet, hearing him say it bothers you. _

_ _

_ “But… you did not?” you try, and he laughs again, scratchy and breathy.  _ Lovely lovely lovely.

_ _

_ In the orange and yellow glow of the fire, his wings and horns and tail and hair and eyes, all of those lovely  _ _ demonic _ _ traits of his, glow a warm amber-brown. His hair has grown since you found him, washed and downy, and his wings have become smooth and leathery in texture; you should know, you’ve spent countless hours examining and healing them. _

_ _

_ He looks good. He looks content. _

_ _

_ You breath in, and let the residuum of smoke from the fireplace fill your lungs. In the warmth and peace of the night, you decide you could live like this forever. You could, truly. _

_ _

_ There is a safety and novelty in this setting. Shane’s voice, though it is far from what it should be, is nice, and you wouldn’t mind spending every night by the fire listening to it. You wonder, now that he talks, just what he might have to say. You don’t have to wonder for too long. _

_ _

_ Shane watches and waits patiently as you finish your tea, before speaking. The tea has done its job, but there is only so much that a few herbs can do for someone who has been silent for months. He will just have to deal with the rasp of his voice, for now. _

_ _

_ “I, uh, think you might have figured this out by now,” he starts, looking a bit timid. You cock an eyebrow and wait. “But, I used to be an angel.” _

_ _

_ Indeed, you had pieced that together. He snickers at your less-than-amazed expression, and continues, his voice crackling like the fire he sits in front of. _

_ _

_ “I… I do not quite remember what I did that lead to this.” He pulls his legs in closer to himself, and his tail follows, coiling around his one of his thighs. _

_ _

_ “You probably sinned.” You guess, humor lilting your tone. He does not laugh this time, but he smiles, and that is good enough. _

_ _

_ “Yeah, I most likely did. No matter. I fell from grace, and now I am…” you wait for him to continue. He does not. _

_ _

_ “You are…?” you prompt. He gives you a look, and as insensitive as it is, you remain unfazed, waiting to hear what he has to say. _

_ _

_ “I am a demon. I am a servant of Hell.” He looks almost mournful, flickering shadows from the flames making him look much more angular, and much less soft than he had only a moment ago. _

_ _

_ That was the answer you were expecting, of course. And a good thing it was, too, because now the ball is in your court. _

_ _

_ “But, are you really a servant of Hell if you, uh, do not serve Hell?” _

_ _

_ He is weary, you know. It shows on his face, and if you knew better, you would let the subject drop and say goodnight. _

_ _

_ “I am a demon. Demons are failed angels. Failed angels serve the devil.” _

_ _

_ “If they so choose, yes.” _

_ _

_ He does not get it, you know this too. He’s been told something, and he believes it. You go on. _

_ _

_ “I am a witch. I am also a servant of the devil, supposedly.” Oh, it is not intended to be as bitter as it comes out, but intentions mean nothing to the acidity those words have been stewing in. _

_ _

_ “You are no devil worshipper. You practice medicine and remedies, the townsfolk are just too hindered in their knowledge to understand that what you have is a gift.” He waves his hand as if he is batting away your rebuttal, and that only fuels you on. _

_ _

_ “You are right, I am not a devil worshipper. But that does not stop them from saying I am. The things one is told are not the equivalent of truth, and they never will be. All you have ever heard is that demons must serve the devil, but refusing to question that notion will only seal that fate. You have to find out for yourself what you are and what that means. Some horns and a tail do not make you evil, Shane.” _

_ _

_ The aforementioned tail unravels from around his thigh and flicks as he muses. You wonder if it will truly be that easy to change his way of thinking, but deep down you know better. He will dismiss you, and you cannot really critique him for that. Who knows how long his existence has been; how long he has served at the side of a Lord. This notion that once one has sinned, they are creatures of evil is rooted deeply in his mind, and you will not dig out millenia of godly propaganda in one night. _

_ _

_ “I suppose we will see.” Is the answer he gives you, and it is more than you could have expected from him. You are a bit floored by how genuine his answer seems. _

_ _

_ “I suppose we will.” You throw back, and he smiles, slow and relaxed. He takes his time, inhaling slowly, then releasing it, before he shakes his head disbelievingly, smiling still. _

_ _

_ “I am just now starting to talk, and you can not even let me have the last word?” he jokes. _

_ _

_ You do not reply, and he takes that as his cue to stand. You take his hand when he offers it to you, and once you are both standing, neither of you seem to know what to do. _

_ _

_ “Well, I guess it is about time I leave for my bedroom. If you need anything, come get me.” You say, and he nods. _

_ _

_ For a second or so, there is a tension. What kind, you can not be sure, but it is there. Your hands fidget with one another, and yet again, Shane’s tail is flicking, flicking, flicking, and you wonder what he is thinking. _

_ _

_ “Goodnight.” He says, finally, and you can feel the uncertainty drain from where it had risen in your chest and your throat, gone in a second. This is how things are and how they will be. This is your pattern. _

_ _

_ “Goodnight.” You say back, because he is right, you truly cannot let him have the last word. And if, as you pass him, you allow your hand to bump against his arm, if, by any small chance, you debate grabbing him by one of his horns and pulling him closer until you are nose to nose, well, that is your business and yours alone. _

_ _

_ It is your pattern to break, after all, not his. _

__   
  


lll.

__   
  


**“This week on BuzzFeed Unsolved, we investigate the Witch’s Acre of Marblehead Massachusetts, a site where, on March 26, 1737, a woman thought to be a witch by the citizens of a nearby town was burned alive in her own home. As we investigate this significant landmark, we will also delve further into the question: are ghosts real?”**

__   
  


~~~~~~

__   
  


Shane does  _ not  _ hate his job, let’s be clear on that. In fact, he quite likes it.

_ _

He’s found an unlikely companion in his co-worker, Ryan Bergara, and although Shane has never feared any ghost, ever (even the strongest ghost wouldn’t stand a chance against a demon of any status, much less  _ him _ ) Ryan does. Even in buildings that have been vacant of spirits for years, Ryan manages to work himself into a terror, starting with a leap and spiralling downwards from there. To say that Shane isn’t amused by watching this would be a lie.

_ _

However, it would also be a lie to say Shane is thrilled to film this episode. Is the novelty of the case being ‘supernatural’ really even all there when he knows that you didn’t burn?

_ _

Well, he knows you didn’t burn  _ that  _ night, at least. What happened afterwards is anyone’s guess.

_ _

He, personally, likes to think that you’re still around, somewhere. It isn’t impossible; demonic magic can do all sorts of shit, and although immortalizing you wasn’t exactly his main goal on that night, he certainly didn’t try to  _ not _ immortalize you.

_ _

The argument sounds weak, he knows, but there’s no way to prove or disprove it. He was new to demonic magic then, had no clue what he was doing, just how to channel what he was feeling into a form of actuality. As odd of an admission as it is, you living as long as he does was something he’d had on his mind at the time. Things were emotional, he was scared, etcetera etcetera. Who knows, is the point. You could very well be ok. He could find you again.

_ _

But right now, that’s not his main focus. His main focus is packing his things in a suitcase, and packing his emotions back down into his head.

_ _

He doesn’t pack much. Enough clothes for a typical overnight shoot, plus a spare outfit just in case. Before leaving the apartment, he fills Obi’s food and water bowls, and gives him a friendly scratch under the chin. The cat, now, he had immortalized on purpose. If and when Shane finds you again, he knows you’ll be delighted to see your beloved familiar, and besides, Shane himself has taken a liking to the Obi. He’s low maintenance, and good company. Having him around is better than the alternative of living alone.

_ _

“Alright buddy.” He sighs, exchanging a knowing look with the cat. Obi looks away, and sniffs disinterestedly at his food, and Shane gets the message. “I’ll be back soon.”

_ _

Shane’s phone buzzes with a notification that he already knows is from his Uber, and Shane makes his exit. He makes sure to lock the door, and with that, he loads his things into the car and settles in for the ride to the airport. He shoots a text to reassure Ryan that he’s on his way and on schedule, and with that, he lays his head back against the seat and just breathes.

_ _

He really, really isn’t excited to be returning to Marblehead, and is especially not excited to be filming an episode about you. The last thing he needs is to be back at the very scene he last saw you at. At ‘your house’, that is truthfully neither a house, much less  _ your _ s. You aren’t gonna be there. Shane doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

__   
  


~~~~~~

__   
  


_ Shane does not know how long he has been gone. Too long, probably. _

_ _

_ All he knows is that you are most likely worried sick, up by the fireplace and drinking whatever herbal tea you feel will calm your nerves best. _

_ _

_ It does not matter. Shane is on his way home now. He is rushing, as one could say, like a bat out of hell. His wings are beating at the night air, and he is finally adjusting to flying with featherless wings. _

_ _

_ Beneath him is fire. Flames on torches, carried by the individuals of the town whose names and faces he has never bothered to learn. He does not know for sure where they are going, but he has a hunch, and the implications of it are digging their way under his skin, making him feel frantic and itchy. _

_ _

_ He has an advantage over the people, though, and he makes it to your home before them, only barely. _

_ _

_ No smoke exits your chimney, and, under the assumption that the fire is put out, Shane folds his wings closed and plummets straight down, using his feet and hands to slow his descent. _

_ _

_ He tracks soot onto your floors, but he cannot be made to care. You are slowly approaching your front door, hand outstretched as if to grab the handle. As if to open it. _

_ _

_ That is… not something he wants. In fact, it is quite the opposite of anything and everything he has ever wanted.  _

_ _

_ You are standing in the reverberation of their torch light, eyes glassy and your hand still inching forward. Shallow, fast-paced huffs of breath align with the rise and fall of your chest, and Shane well and truly does not know what to do here. _

_ _

_ Shane is fairly smart, is the thing. He, logically, knows what these people have come for and what they plan to do. That is common sense, after all. What else would a town want with a witch but to burn her? _

_ _

_ He also, logically, knows that he should be doing something. He should be speaking, or scooping you up and getting you the hell out of here, but instead, here he stands, staring blankly, silently forward.  _

_ _

_ In the licking oranges and yellows of flame, you are vibrant and vivid. Your fingers are twitching with something between fear and temptation. Your eyes are wild, focused on the people outside of your window. Three loud, firm knocks echo through the room, and Shane sees you snap out of whatever trance you had been in and begin to wrap your palm against the handle. _

_ _

_ Only, you do not. You freeze, and Shane, without even thinking, steps forward, his front to your back, and slaps a hand over your mouth. His tail is curled around your ankles, and though he does not know how long it has been there, he lets it stay. _

_ _

_ In his grip, you are lax. He can feel your breath on his palm, just as uneven as before, but as scared as he knows you are, you are giving no fight. This is not you. _

_ _

_ He leans in closer than he really needs to, his voice hushed when he says your name. He can  _ feel  _ the recognition hit you, feel you straighten in his grip, and he lets you go. _

_ _

_ “Shane?” Oh god, your voice is so tiny. Shane nearly lurches forward to grip you once more, but he does not. He shows restraint, and instead says what he is sure you already know. _

_ _

_ “We need to leave. Now. They are-” _

_ _

_ “Going to burn me, yes.” You cut him off. _

_ _

_ Your face is riddled with guilt, but Shane knows not of why.  _

_ _

_ Why guilt? You have nothing to be guilty for.  _

_ _

_ “Shane, I am going to let them.” You swallow thickly, and tremble. The slight shake of your shoulders catches Shane’s eye, and he wants to touch you touch you  _ touch you.

_ _

_ He does not. There are a great many things he does not do. _

_ _

_ There are also a great many things he does not remember. _

_ _

_ What he does remember is the smoke. The heat, too, of course, and the clouded purple glow of his hands as he used his magic to do the first thing he physically could to get you out of there and away. _

_ _

_ He remembers Obi’s claws puncturing his chest and the cat’s weak hiss and Shane awkwardly clambered back out through a window.  _

_ _

_ He remembers his mistake of not paying attention to just what his magic had done. _

_ _

_ He remembers- _

__   
  


_ ~~~~~~ _

__   
  


“Shane?”

_ _

The car door is open, and there’s Ryan, suitcase in tow and a scrutinizing look on his face. Shane shakes his head, making sure to over-do it and toss his hair around enough to ruffle it in hopes that Ryan takes the bait and laughs it off.

_ _

“Are you doing alright?” Ryan asks, his concern wavering only slightly. “Did you like, eat something funny for lunch, or- or did something happen?” 

_ _

Shane really wishes he was as endeared as he should be at Ryan’s fretting for him. He’s giving Shane an understanding look, and Shane’s pretty certain that if he doesn’t step out of the car and start joking around right now, Ryan’s going to offer to cancel the trip.

_ _

Shane steps out of the vehicle, and hands his dues over to the driver. He hands Ryan his suitcase momentarily and closes the car door, then takes his suitcase back and steps away from the road. 

_ _

Ryan watches quietly while he stretches, first his arms, then his back. Shane takes his time, much to the annoyance of the many other people trying to enter and exit the airport.

_ _

“I’m good, I’m fine.” Shane says, finally, but Ryan doesn’t look all too convinced. “I just slept weird, is all. My back hurts.”

_ _

“All 10 feet of it?” Ryan jokes, and ah, yes, there we go. Back to normal. Back to jokes.

_ _

Shane smiles, and it takes effort. He isn’t sure it’s his most convincing smile, but Ryan accepts it without further questioning, moves on to the next topic, which happens to be a shop he passed on the ride to the airport. One that is, in fact, very much visible from where they’re standing now, in the parking lot.

_ _

“It looks pretty interesting, huh?” Ryan asks, and Shane wonders whether or not this is supposed to be a joke. The (very large) sign of the place is decked out in deep shades of black and purple, as well as several symbols, ranging from a clipart-y witch’s hat to a pentagram. Shane scoffs.

_ _

“Are you serious? What, do you want to do an episode on overpriced sparkly rocks and black cat stickers?” Shane wants to take it back right away. He’s in a mood, and that shines through in his tone; it’s too much insult, not enough joke. Ryan catches that.

_ _

Now, here’s where Shane is left to wonder: will Ryan try to have a serious conversation with him to figure out what’s wrong, or will he get defensive and irritated? 

_ _

Shane isn’t left in suspense for long.

_ _

“Oh, fuck you, dude. It’s a metaphysical shop, that stuff isn’t  _ all  _ bullshit. At the very least, I think we should look around. Props for an episode or something.” He’s mad, but he’s tender-mad. Shane’s hit a sore spot, and he hit it hard. And Shane knows that this is where he should just surrender, agree to go to the shop with Ryan after the episode is filmed. Shane should shut his mouth and let this drop, because he really isn’t that opposed to spending a half hour poking around a store filled with things for him to make fun of.

_ _

“If you want to buy a bumper sticker to tell the world you piss your pants when you hear the wind outside, be my guest, but I’m not going with you to do it.” Shane snaps. 

_ _

_ Too far, too far, too far,  _ his mind screams. His mind is right. 

_ _

“Alright, what the fuck is your problem?” Now they’re making a scene. Shane wonders just how many passersby are staring, and how many are very purposefully Not Staring. Not enough for him to care, apparently, because he can feel a wave of fury thrashing in his stomach, rising like his temper. The heat of it bubbles up into his throat, then his mouth. Shane is ready to spit venom.

_ _

And then it drops back down; scorching lava cooling into a hefty rock and dropping to the floor of his stomach. His muscles relax, and he goes stoic, as he does so well.

_ _

Ryan is still standing before him, tensed and scowling, and Shane decides that the best thing to do is to just move along. He puts one foot in front of the other, step by step, until he feels the air conditioner in the airport hit his bare arms. He knows Ryan is trailing behind him, fists clenched and fuming, but he can’t worry about that right now, because they have bags to check in and a flight to catch.

_ This will blow over. That shop is stupid, and Ryan knows it. _

As he walks, mentally isolated, he thinks of you and of what you would think of that shop. He knows somewhere in his heart that despite how stupid the store looks,  _ you _ would go if Ryan asked. 

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


The episode is going to suck. There’s really no point in sugarcoating it.

Both Shane and Ryan are bitter and irritable for the whole plane ride, and for the drive to the location, and while the crew was setting up.

Quite frankly, that isn’t good for production value.

Neither of them wants to apologize first (or at all) though, and that leads to a stalemate between the two co-hosts. The crew say nothing of it, and do their job. This is a problem Shane and Ryan created, and a problem Shane and Ryan have to solve.

The problem is, they don’t solve it (which, really, is to be expected. They have a whole show dedicated to not solving things), at least, not in time to salvage this episode.

Shane makes no comedic commentary whatsoever, and is clearly fuming for the entirety of the night. Beneath the glamour that hides his wings, horns, tail, and eyes, he’s whipping his tail around and wishing he could get away with spreading his wings and just flapping them, like a bird throwing a fit.

Instead, he simply tosses around some magic, which is equally good for de-stressing.

Small things, really; shadows that are just a bit too long, making the wind a bit stronger, the basics. He knows it scares Ryan, knows that even though he might as well not even be in frame, he’s at least giving the show a  _ little _ spice.

When Ryan mentions his theory of you being a worshipper of Satan, Shane wills 3 scratch marks to appear on Ryan’s shoulder, unnoticeable until they’ve packed up and left. He wills it to sting and burn while Ryan tosses in his sleep, and he doesn’t stop until he sees him shake.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


Your current place of employment leaves a lot to be desired. In the long run, it pays the bills, but then again, so do most jobs. 

The shop, oh-so ironically called ‘Witches Be Crazy’, is, to put it simply, a scam. As a practiced witch, you know better than to believe that half of the things they sell are even close to what they say they are, not to mention how fake the palm and tarot readings are.

If you wanted, you could do these things properly. The problem is, that takes effort that you aren’t really being paid for. And, you don’t really think the customers would know the difference, or care. 

No matter though, you suppose. You get discounts on everything and free specialty teas, so you are content to remain. 

With the placement of the shop directly across from the airport, you get quite a lot of business; good and bad. You’ve dealt with just about every type of customer, and with that experience comes the ability to recognize certain kinds.

Which makes it a no-brainer that this guy is clearly in need of some assistance.

You move in, casually eyeing him to get a better assessment. He’s gotta be in his late 20’s or so, well built and jittery, which is an interesting mix. As far as you can tell, he seems to be looking for something specific, but can’t find it. One of his hands absentmindedly scratches at his shoulder.

“Do you need any help finding anything?” you ask from behind him.

He jumps ever so slightly, but he’s calm when he turns to face you.

“Yeah, actually. I, uh, think I may have been assaulted by a demon.”

That is, to say the least, not something you were expecting to hear today. However, it’s not the first time, so the shock wears off quick.

“Right, ok. But, product wise, do you know specifically what you’re looking for?”

He thinks for a moment. “Sage and holy water?”

“Well, we haven’t had holy water since the… incident last year, but sage I can do. Follow me.”

You lead him to the sage display, and chat idly with him while he peruses his options. He tells you, rather proudly, that he hosts a rather popular web series about investigating famously haunted locations. He isn’t bragging though, which you appreciate. You, in turn, tell him about how much of a scam this shop is, and advise him against buying anything other than the sage, one of the only products that’s marketed as the actual item it is here.

“Huh, so I guess Shane was right then.” He mumbles, half bitter and half amused.

You can’t help but get caught on the name of his friend. You feel you should be over reacting like that to the name, it’s a decently common one, and you can’t be walking around and freezing up every time some stranger says ‘Shane’. But you can’t help it, you’re curious as to where he is and how he’s doing. 

You miss him, and you’re pretty certain he’s out there somewhere. Demons don’t die unless they’re killed, and you doubt that he’d be dumb enough to get himself killed.

“Why, has this ‘Shane’ character been trashing the reputation of the store?” you slap a hand onto your chest in mock-offense, and Ryan laughs. It’s a wheezy sound, and his eyes squint and his cheeks lift. To put it shortly, it’s a very genuine laugh for a very half-assed joke.

“Yeah, you could say that.” He says after he settles down. “He started this whole huge argument with me over this place.” He says it casually, but you can tell there’s an edge of bitterness.

“Well, I simply cannot fathom why he would think ‘Witches Be Crazy’ lacks credibility.” You say with a wink. After a moment, you add, “Has this conflict of yours been resolved?”

And here you are, standing in the middle of a metaphysical shop, talking to a stranger who is also a celebrity about his friend being an asshole.

“Well… No. He never apologized, and I haven’t really contacted him. I figured, I’ll see him at work tomorrow, so why bother.” He shrugs. By now, he’s settled on a bundle of sage, and you begin leading him back to the counter so you can check him out.

“Ok. Well, while I check you out, would you mind telling me about your demon encounter? I feel like we haven’t said much about that.” You scan the sage and print his receipt. He declines your offer of a plastic bag.

“Oh, yeah. That.” The man winces, and like earlier, you notice his hand gravitate to his left shoulder. “I was filming an episode, and when I woke up the morning after, I had three scratches on my shoulder. They’re small, but they sting. And ever since I’ve gotten back, I just feel… watched.” 

You feel the contents of one of your pants pockets practically burn against your thigh, and you do your best to be casual about getting the item out.

“That definitely sounds demon-ish to me. But I have to say, I can’t really promise sage will do much against it.” In your palm,you clutch a small, white downy feather. “How about, I give you a little something extra, just because you’re a first time shopper here?” you offer, and you watch him freeze before shaking his head.

“I don’t smoke-” he begins, and you can’t help but laugh. A surprised, unfortunately snort-like laugh.

“I promise I’m not offering you pot.”

He looks infinitely relieved, though somewhat embarrassed.

“Alright, you’re gonna doubt me when I tell you what this is, and that’s fine,” you begin. “But I really do think you should take my advice and keep it with you.” You gesture for him to hold out his hand, and he does, transferring his sage to his other hand.

You set the feather on his flat palm, and give him a minute to examine it. He doesn’t seem to know how to react.

“I, uh. Thank you…?” he smiles feebly, trying to seem grateful, but you shake your head.

“You don’t even know what it is yet.” He raises an eyebrow, interest piqued.

“It’s a feather.” The  _ duh _ goes unsaid, but you catch it rather easily.

“It’s an  _ angel  _ feather. Look, I can’t tell you how I got it, and I can’t really verify it, but you just have to take my word on this. That’s a feather from an angel’s wing, and I personally believe it brings good luck.” 

This man is nothing if not polite, because he humors you, keeping his face neutral and nodding.

“I swear, I’m not a wackjob. If you can believe in demons, I can believe in angels.”

“No! No, I don’t think you’re like, crazy! I just… Have questions.” Behind him, a line is forming, has formed.

You make awkward eye contact with a man standing directly behind him. He’s tapping his foot impatiently, and he makes a point to take out his phone and check the time while he’s got your attention.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have the time to answer them right now.” You smile apologetically, and the man turns around to see the line.

“Oh geez. Yeah, I guess not..” You watch as he tucks the feather (very tenderly, you notice with a sudden flash of appreciation) into his pocket, and he steps out of the way. The man standing behind him steps up in a rush, as if his spot will be taken if he doesn’t, and you summon your years of customer service experience to aid you in not rolling your eyes.

“Wait, one second.” You say, and the man you were previously talking to pauses in the midst of his exit.

“Come on, are you serious?” the next-in-line grumbles, and you decide it’s best to ignore him.

You rip a piece of scrap paper from your manager’s notebook that she left laying by the cash register, and quickly write down your phone number. “I can answer them later, though. Can we meet up sometime soon?”

He nods, too eager to be casual, and you smile. 

“Alright, text me when and where, and we’ll work it out.” 

“Yeah, of course! Thank you,” he pauses, and looks to where your nametag is clipped to your shirt. He finishes with your name, testing it out.

“No problem…?”

“Ryan. Ryan Bergara.” He reaches out his hand to shake, but thinks better of it when a few of the people in line begin to grumble. “Good luck.” He gestures to the ever-growing line of customers, before waving goodbye and darting out into the parking lot with a skip in his step. As you do your best to get everyone checked out quickly and efficiently, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

You aren’t disappointed when you later find that it’s a text from Ryan.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


Shane is well aware that he’s wallowing, and he can’t say he’s very proud of it.

He thought that getting back from the trip would be the best part; a weight off of his shoulder. It turns out, he thought wrong.

He’s guilty, for one. He’s long past keeping up any sort of façade that he was right to behave the way he did. He knew even in the moment that he was being an asshole. But when you’re aware that you’re being an asshole and don’t know how to stop it, it just makes you more of one out of frustration.

Shane knows he ruined the episode. He knows he ruined Ryan’s weekend. He knows he’s ruining his own mood by continuing to dwell on it. 

He also knows he’s probably ruined the rest of his week, because there’s no way that Ryan is going to be able to relax when he’s high strung over being attacked by a demon. Which, unfortunately, he technically was. Not that Shane will ever admit that.

The minute he steps into his apartment, Obi is at his heels, meowing and carrying on. He bends to scoop Obi up, and fawns over him until he feels the orange cat has had enough. His food bowl is empty, as is his water, so Shane refills them and heads to his room, happy to kick his shoes off and allow the glamour hiding his demonic features to fade.

Shane passes out the minute he hits the mattress, wings spread and on his back, to avoid his horns tearing his pillows again.

His last thoughts as he fades out of consciousness are of whether or not Chipotle would be enough to earn Ryan’s forgiveness.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


Ryan smells intensely of sage when you see him only a day later, and you wonder briefly if you’ve created a monster.

He’s sitting on a blanket near a fountain in the park, a casual lunch packed, which he really didn’t have to do, but hey, you’ll take it. 

He doesn’t notice you’ve arrived until you plop down onto the blanket with him.

“Oh! You’re here.” You pretend you didn’t notice him jump, and he does the same.

“Indeed I am. And I bring with me my infinite knowledge and some Capri Suns.” You place the box of Capri Suns by the old Easter basket he’s using as a picnic basket, and move over to the other side of the blanket so you can get a good look at him. He has bags under his eyes big enough to count as separate entities, and his hair is tousled, in the ‘nervous wreck’ way rather than the endearing one.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” he says, and you roll your eyes playfully.

“Says the guy who packed an entire lunch.” 

He shrugs. “It’s just a few sandwiches. If I’m being honest, we might have to get lunch somewhere else.” He leans in and loudly whispers, “I don’t think they’re gonna be very good.”

You both chuckle a bit.

“Well, I guess we’ll see.” And this is where you pause, because there’s a rising tension, an awkwardness. You aren’t quite sure how to transition from small talk to the topic of demons and the feathers of angels.

“So, ok.” You begin, and you’re happy to say that Ryan notices the change in tone and straightens his posture, moving from casual to attentive. You clear your throat to avoid any cracks, and begin. “About that thing I gave you last time.”

“The not-marijuana?” he interjects, and you laugh and nod.

“The not-marijuana. Look, how I got ahold of it is kind of a long story, so I’m gonna give you the shortened version of it.” He hums his assent, and you take a deep breath.

“Hang in there, ok? This is gonna sound crazy.” And truly, it will. For both of you. Because you’ve never told it to anyone else, never said it aloud even to yourself. You look up, and you’re thankful to see Ryan is paying attention. You have a feeling he won’t be the type to mock you about this, and that gives you some much needed reassurance. You start.

For a shortened rendition of the story, it takes a while to tell. And okay, maybe some of the details you share aren’t necessary in the long run, but venting about it feels like a dam breaking in the best way, and you know that you deserve to have this. 

You go over everything; meeting the fallen angel (whose name you oh-so-delicately avoid saying) and nursing him to health, the persecution you faced for your craft, the fire, the magical-teleportation that resulted in your escape, and everything up until now, including your seemingly unchanged body that’s bound to get you questioned sooner or later. You explain that you do your best to keep a feather with you at all times.  _ Because it’s good luck _ , you tell yourself.

The entire time you’re speaking, Ryan is paying rapt attention. It’s both the bare minimum and a lot to ask at the same time, and you feel a bit overwhelmed by it. It’s nice to have someone listen to you after so long.

“Wow.” Is all he says at first. You can practically see the gears in his brain turning, his eyes flicking from left to right, up and down. You focus on just catching your breath while he thinks it all over, and down a Capri Sun in one long drink to satiate the thick feeling in your throat.

“So. How was  _ your _ day?” you say after a while of Ryan silently musing. It snaps him back into reality, and he smiles, but it’s sour underneath.

“Well, my co-worker is still being a big baby. He wouldn’t even look at me today. I figured he would have something to say; an apology or a bad joke to patch things up.”

“And he didn’t?”

“Nope. He just sits and stares at his computer. I tried to start a conversation and he just crossed his floppy fuckin’ noodle arms and looked off into the distance like he’s in an ad for antidepressants.” You cackle at that, and Ryan joins you.

“You’ve gotta be kidding! So, what? He pretended he didn’t hear you and hoped you would just walk away instead of getting pissed and going off on him?” You ask.

“Yeah! But he was right I guess. I can’t really just start screaming at him in the office, I work at BuzzFeed for God’s sake, there would be three articles and a personality quiz about it published by time I clocked out.” As Ryan speaks, you unpack two of the five (five?) sandwiches he brought, and hand him one. He accepts it with a quick ‘thank you’. 

One bite tells you that it’s mediocre at best, but he tried and it couldn’t possibly be the worst thing you’ll ever eat, so you re-immerse yourself in the conversation rather than bring it up.

“So you walked away?” you prompt. He nods.

“Yeah. I have to actually do my work, and if he isn’t ready to stop acting like a toddler yet, that’s his problem.” Ryan seems quite sure of what he’s said, and you admire that.

“You know, I haven’t even met this guy yet, and he already kind of annoys me.” You joke, and Ryan raises an eyebrow.  _ You have no idea. _ “Are you sure  _ he _ isn’t the demon who clawed you up?” This is meant to be a joke too, but you catch a flicker of apprehension on his face, and whoa, okay.

“I mean. Anything’s possible?” he feebly tries to make it seem like he’s kidding, but now you’re hooked.

“Dude, really?”

“I don’t know. Some fans of the show seem to think so.” He picks at the crust of his sandwich, and you wait for him to give more. “It just seems weird to me that the one time I got some solid proof like this,” he gestured to his shoulder, “Shane was all broody. He was weird for the whole trip, too. I don’t necessarily.... Think he’s a demon. I’m just paranoid.”

Before you really think about it, you blurt, “I’ll bet I could tell. If he’s a demon or not, I mean.” 

Ryan quirks his mouth, his jaw set in what you hope is consideration. In the meantime, you’re left to wonder why the hell you said that. This coworker doesn’t sound all too pleasant from what you’ve heard, and the likeliness that he’s just a normal guy is pretty high. You have no reason to jump right in like you are.

“Wait, are you serious?” it’s either wariness or hope, and you push forward with any and all confidence you can find in hopes that it will help push you in whatever direction you’re trying to go with this.

“Sure. If you’re down, I mean. I could meet him briefly, however works best for you, and let you know whether or not you have anything to worry about. Or, if he’s just a big baby like you said.” 

He takes another minute to consider, and you reach for another Capri Sun while you wait for his ruling. He doesn’t take long to come to a decision.

“Ok, yeah! That’s actually really cool of you. I mean, since I’m practically a complete stranger.”

“Well, you listened to my long, crazy story about being an immortal witch who teleported onto a beach, so it’s the least I can do. Are you really even a stranger to someone once you’ve had a supernatural conversation with them?”

Ryan doesn’t say anything or laugh this time. He just gives you a sweetly sincere smile and stands, offering you a hand to help you get up.

Once standing, you brush off your legs and gather the scattered trash around the picnic blanket, putting it in the basket until you next pass a garbage can.

The closer you get to the edge of the park, the more you want to say. All that you can really manage to get out is small talk, though.

“So, do you work tomorrow?” you both ask in unison, and you chuckle nervously at the timing. You answer first.

“No, I have tomorrow off. You?”

“I do, actually. I was thinking you could drop by while I’m on lunch. Even if Shane won’t talk to me, he’s not a big enough asshole to give a stranger the cold shoulder. I get if you’re busy tomorrow-”

“No, I’m free all day, actually.” You interrupt, and there he goes grinning again, bright and wide.

“So, I can just text you the time, right? I’ll meet you at the front doors and get you up into the office, and we can wring some answers out of Shane.” You nod agreeably.

From here, you go your separate ways, wishing one another well until tomorrow. 

There is a gentle breeze as you make your way home, and though you’re tired, you feel good. You stop for a snack at a bakery you pass, and grab a smoothie while you’re there, because why not? Treat yourself. 

All in all, today could have gone much worse.

Still, something sticks with you as you make your way home.

The name of Ryan’s coworker repeats in your head like a mantra, and you debate with yourself, back and forth.

Is it wrong to hope someone is a demon?

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


“Ughhhhhh.”

Shane is laying on his back in bed, a half-covered plate of Totino’s pizza rolls on the nightstand. On his chest, Obi is curled up and sleeping. He isn’t sleeping very deeply, though, because at the sound of Shane’s groan, he flicks his tail over into the man’s face.

Shane turns his head and weakly lifts his hand to his face to wipe off the small, fine cat hairs, tossing a dramatic glare at the cat.

Obi is unbothered though, carelessly laying back down on Shane’s chest and purring quietly.

“Obi, I’m gonna have to talk to Ryan tomorrow.”

The cat is unresponsive, but Shane continues.

“I can’t believe I haven’t already. He tried talking to me today, like 3 times, and I just acted like I was in one of those black and white films about the process of mourning.” Shane sighs. “I feel shitty. I mean, I did the fucking 3-clawed-demon-scratch thing to him, that’s all kinds of messed up. He’s never gonna let it go that he has solid proof of demons now. I might as well have just outed myself. Popped out of the demon closet. Wore a shirt that says ‘I’m the horned sheep of the family’.”

If it isn’t made obvious by the fact that he’s talking to his cat, Shane feels a hint guilty. It isn’t really the scratching part that bothers him, though. Certainly, he feels shitty because of that too, but it isn’t the worst part. He had barely even broken the skin, had just done enough to spook Ryan. 

No, it’s his other behaviors that are haunting him. The things he said before the shoot, and his choice of ignoring Ryan and ruining that whole episode just because he didn’t want to be there.

Ryan works hard on Unsolved, and Shane knows this. He knows Ryan frets over ratings and slaves over research, knows how much effort and care goes into planning shoots and making sure everything is  _ just right _ . 

Shane also knows how pissed Ryan is about it. But he has to appreciate that Ryan, instead of making any sort of comments or giving Shane the same amount of cold shoulder that he’s received, has been trying to mend things.

That makes him feel significantly worse.

“I don’t even know why I acted like that for the whole episode. It isn’t her house anymore, and it was pretty much just a patch of woods. There weren’t any ghosts or other demons, it was just… barren. Maybe it was the concept of the place that bothered me?”

Shane stops pondering aloud here, instead opting to stroke Obi’s head and stop thinking. It’s easier than he figured it would be. But maybe that’s because missing you is more about the space that’s left in his emotions than the space your absence fills in his thoughts.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  


Ryan isn’t expecting Shane to do the complete flip that he does. 

He’s quiet all day, and Ryan doesn’t bother to try changing that. He’s more than content, excited even, to go on with his plan of bringing you in to see if Shane passes the Demon Test. Even if there’s nothing odd (supernatural wise) about his friend, Ryan’s certain you can still be of assistance. Shane would never be rude to you, even if you are here to force an apology out of him.

Besides, this makes for an interesting introduction one way or another. He has a feeling that once this stupid fight blows over and he and Shane are back on speaking terms, you could fit in nicely with them. You’ve got the vibe of a ghouligan, to be sure.

But the thing is, Shane chooses to stop being an asshole, and at the most inconvenient time, too.

Ryan’s given you a mini-tour of the building before his lunch break, and just as he’s leading the way to his desk to show you an absolutely  _ hilarious _ picture of he and Shane at BuzzFeed’s last holiday party, Shane approaches, taking long and precise steps at just the right pace to cut Ryan off. His back is to you, but you still recognize him easily, even with his tail and wings hidden.

“Oh, Shane!” Ryan’s eyes widen in surprise, because really, out of all of the times for Shane to approach, now?

  
“Yeah, that’s me.” Shane is standing rather stiffly, and you are too, but for different reasons entirely. He has yet to turn and see you, too preoccupied with whatever it is that he needs with Ryan, and you couldn’t catch his attention if you wanted to. Your feet are stuck to the floor, as is your jaw, it seems.  _ That’s him. Shane.  _ Your  _ Shane. _

Will he remember you? If he does, do you tell Ryan that? Do you make up a story of how you met, or just flat out tell Ryan that Shane is, in fact, a demon?

_ _

The floodgates of thought are open now, and you’re suddenly very, very overwhelmed. Out of the sea of words flowing over and around each other is one, much more prominent thought, though.  _ Was he always that tall? _

_ _

“Look, Ryan, I’m sorry.” He begins, and you can tell Ryan is mentally cursing, because as much as he wants to let Shane finish his much deserved apology, he also doesn’t want to leave you standing awkwardly a few feet away.

_ _

“Shane, it’s-”

_ _

“Don’t say it’s alright. I was a huge dick. I should have told you up front: I didn’t want to go to that location. I should have told you before you even finished the script for the episode. I had no reason to keep acting the way I did after we got back, either. All around, I’m an asshole. I’ll buy you some lunch and I won’t make short jokes for at least two days if you say we’re cool, ok?” He smiles weakly, and Ryan nods quickly.

_ _

“Yeah, yeah, we’re good. Here, there’s someone I think you should meet, though.” He leans around Shane and gives you a small wave, and ok, there’s your cue. You don’t exactly make the decision to step forward, but your body does it anyways, and yup. Here you are. Standing here in a BuzzFeed office with a man you haven’t seen in literal centuries.

_ _

Shane, for his part, seems a bit put off. He almost looks wounded, and you suppose you could see why. Ryan went from begging to talk to Shane to brushing off his apology. You’d analyze this more, too, if Shane wasn’t turning to face you.

_ _

Well.

_ _

He certainly remembers you.

_ _

“Shane,” Ryan begins, sidestepping so he’s between the two of you, “I’d like you to meet a fellow sensible person, who believes in the existence of the supernatural.” Ryan follows up with your name, and then a brief introduction of Shane, but you don’t need it, obviously. Shane clearly doesn’t either.

_ _

You can’t tell if he’s overjoyed or just in shock. His eyes are dilated, hands fidgeting with each other and with the hem of his shirt, and his mouth is slightly agape. You doubt you’re doing much better. You almost feel like you’re going to be sick. Your hands tremble slightly and you hope it isn’t noticeable. 

_ _

Oh boy, he really is tall. That’s the only thing your mind can supply you with right now, it seems. You want to lurch forward and hug him, but you know now is not the time, especially not with Ryan right there.

_ _

Oh  _ shit _ , Ryan!

_ _

“It’s… very nice to meet you, Shane.” You hold your hand out to shake, and yay! Your trembling is Very Much noticeable.

_ _

Ryan is looking at the both of you in a way that states he can tell something is up. His arms cross over his chest as he observes, and you can tell he’s doing mental math trying to add up your behavior.

_ _

“It’s nice to meet you too.” Shane pulls off nonchalance much better than you, flicking the light of recognition off and seamlessly pretending that you didn’t scrub blood off of him every night hundreds of years ago.

_ _

Shane’s casualty throws Ryan off a bit. His arms uncross, and you take a minute to be amused by how easy he is to read. The man’s body language gives away nearly all that he’s thinking; you wonder if he knows.

_ _

“Ryan, why haven’t I ever heard anything about this friend of yours here?” Shane asks. To you, he says, “Not to slander the name of my dear co-host here, but he’s never mentioned you once.” Shane shoots Ryan a disappointed look and even goes as far as to shake his head, chastening.

_ _

“Shut up, Shane. I just met her a few days ago. Actually,” Ryan smiles coyly, stepping closer and unintentionally making himself a barrier between you and Shane (a blessing or a curse?), “She and I met at the very place that started our argument.”

_ _

Shane turns to you. “The airport?”

_ _

“No. I uh, I work at the shop down the road from the airport, though.”

_ _

He scowls, but it’s played up. 

_ _

“Are you serious?”

_ _

“Yeah she’s serious! She sold me sage to cleanse my house in case that demon from Marblehead decided to follow me back.” On one hand, you’re happy Ryan is no longer scared. If he was, he wouldn’t speak of the demon so openly.

_ _

On the other hand, you wince in sympathy for Shane. You consider putting it out there that the sage cleanses evil and negative energy, not necessarily demons. Not all demons are evil entities after all. But no, there’s no need to. It would make Ryan question, and you know Shane already knows this, because otherwise he would have been driven off by the smell of it.

_ _

“Ah, so that’s what that smell is. You know you’re only supposed to burn it, not bathe in it, right?” Shane quips, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

_ _

“How can you even bathe in it? It’s a solid.”

_ _

“Juicers exist.”

_ _

“ _ Juicers exi-! _ ”

_ _

“Boys!” you cut in, and they pause their bickering to listen. “You can argue about the logistics of sage baths later. Right now, you’re on lunch, and Ryan promised me that I get half of your lunch because you were a dick.”

_ _

Ryan flushes a bit at the callout, though thankfully for him, it isn’t too noticeable.

_ _

“Well.” Shane raises an eyebrow at Ryan, then looks to you, and he gives. “Ok. But I get to choose what part you get.” And he leads the way to his desk to fetch his lunch, which is packed into a brown paper bag.

_ _

He brings you and Ryan to a lounge area and unpacks his food, and you just have to marvel at the fact that he packed for himself like a mother packs for her third grader. He picks through it and selects what he wants you to have (spoiler: he lets you have most of the good stuff) including half of his sandwich and a pudding cup.

_ _

Yes, a chocolate, store-bought pudding cup, that he not only bought, but bought for the purpose of putting in his lunch. God, how fucking cute is that?

_ _

“Are you sure you wanna give this up?” you ask, examining the pudding in question. 

_ _

Shane smiles, if a bit dolefully, and nods. “Ryan’s right, this is a proper punishment for my wrongdoings.”

_ _

It’s a joke, you’re more than aware of that. The problem is the subtext that goes with it. Maybe you’re reading too much into it, but his tone seems far too blue to be right for the context. Only, you can’t say anything without alerting Ryan to something or other. You look for a way to hint your own meaning into the banter, a complicated dance around using a tone that’s too obvious or putting  _ too much _ meaning into what you say.

_ _

You settle for not saying anything. Rather than speak, you simply lay your hand on his wrist. You hope the eye contact you make conveys what you want to say.

_ _

“ _ Urm, are ou uys o-ay? _ ” Ryan’s voice is muffled, filtered through a mouthful of some sort of pasta. 

_ _

You pull your wrist away, trying to make it look casual and most likely failing, but either way, you throw on a smile and nod. “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”

_ _

Ryan swallows his pasta (maybe spaghetti?) and wipes at the corner of his mouth for any remaining sauce. You don’t mention that he wiped the wrong side.

_ _

Ryan’s looking pointedly back and forth between you and Shane. He seems a bit suspicious, or curious at the very least.

_ _

“Call me crazy, but I feel like you guys have met before.” He squints. Meanwhile, he’s twirling another forkful of spaghetti.

_ _

“Nope!”

_ _

“Well…” 

_ _

Two very different responses.

_ _

“...Maybe I’ve seen him on the sidewalk before or something.” You finish. Ryan only narrows his eyes more, but instead of arguing, he takes another bite. You let out a breath of relief.

_ _

“So, I guess it wasn’t really necessary for me to come today, huh?” You pipe up after a moment of no one speaking.

_ _

“What do you mean?” Shane looks taken aback, and maybe even like he had earlier when Ryan brushed off his apology. Ryan swallows quickly, and adds.

_ _

“Yeah, what are you talking about? I think we’re all having a pretty good time.” He leans back in his seat, which can’t be safe, and places his arms behind his head casually; relaxed.

_ _

“I was supposed to convince Shane to stop being a dummy and apologize, but he did that on his own.” You elaborate.

_ _

“I’m sorry, you were supposed to what?” he looks at Ryan, who looks momentarily sheepish. “ _ Ry _ an, it’s very rude to make your friends do your bidding, especially when they hardly even know you.” Shane scolds, waggling a finger. Ryan sticks out his tongue.

_ _

“Whatever, she offered.” 

_ _

You shrug. “Guilty as charged.”

_ _

From here, Ryan changes the subject to an upcoming location for Unsolved, and you let them discuss in peace, enjoying the break and eating your half of Shane’s sandwich. Eventually, Shane and Ryan are back on the clock, and you know it’s best you leave.

_ _

“Thanks for getting me into the building, Ry. I don’t know how I’d help the Russians take down BuzzFeed from the inside without seeing the place for myself.” 

_ _

Ryan chuckles and shakes his head. “Don’t mention it, comrade.” He pats you firmly on the shoulder in what you’re sure is a frat-esque gesture of affection, and you return the favor. It’s somewhat less impressive, considering how big his arms are compared to yours, but he doesn’t care so neither do you.

_ _

“Shane.” You turn to the taller man, who’s standing rather awkwardly, hands tucked behind his back. He tilts his head in acknowledgement, and you continue, “It was nice to meet you.” 

_ _

You hate how tense the words sound, hate how you know both he and Ryan can hear  _ something _ in your words.

_ _

Shane smiles though, and you let it erase your nerves like the dawn wipes away the stars.

_ _

“It was nice to meet you, too. Here, I can walk you out?” You can read him like a book, but Ryan seems none the wiser, slowly inching away. He seems antsy, and though you’ve just met him, you’re aware that he wants to get back to work.

_ _

“Sure.” The both of you nod to Ryan, a goodbye from you, and an ‘I’ll be right back’ from Shane.

_ _

At the doors of the building, Shane swallows, visibly and audibly. He speaks your name, quiet enough that only you can hear it, though that can’t be hard considering the buzz that packs the building. Guess that’s why they call it BuzzFeed.

_ _

You say nothing, not yet. You don’t know where he’s gonna go with this or what he’s going to say. You just know that it will be important, and so, you listen.

_ _

“Can- should we- I could-?” 

_ _

It looks like this is going to be up to you. 

_ _

“Are you free to come over tonight?” that works like a charm. You can practically see his tail whip, see the way his wings twitch with the urge to unfurl. You can’t wait to see them yourself, rather than picture them in your head like this, because truth be told, that hair of his looks much better when it’s parted and mussed around twisted horns.

_ _

“Yeah!” He clears his throat. “Yeah, I am.” 

_ _

You chuckle at his forced casualty, and hold out your hand for his cell phone. You put in your number and send yourself a text, then hand it back.

_ _

“Let me know when you’ll be over, ok? I’ll send you my address.” 

_ _

He nods eagerly, and you leave BuzzFeed galvanized and animated in your excitement. In your pocket, a speckled gold-and-white feather rests.

__   
  


~~~~~~

__   
  


You order pizza, an easy, simple, and agreeable choice. Shane is on his way, and you flutter about the place in search of anything you should change or clean or fix or-

_ _

Deep breaths. You have nothing to worry about, it’s Shane we’re talking about here. You doubt that he’ll be disinterested in seeing you just because of your somewhat scattered living conditions, and in truth, your home really isn’t all that bad.

_ _

You put away your lint roller just as the doorbell rings. It’s the pizza, and you set it on the counter. In a wave of both utter nerves and simple zest for life, you tip the delivery woman $30 and give her a spur-of-the-moment high five. 

_ _

You check the pizza to make sure everything is right 3 times before the doorbell rings again. You sprint halfway there, before forcing yourself to take normal, average paced steps.  _ You’ve gotta chill _ .

_ _

Shane’s outfit is caught in the space between formal and casual, and you almost laugh when you see him. He’s got a casual pink jacket on, with a blue dress shirt that he clearly ironed the shit out of on underneath. 

_ _

His shoes are shined to perfection, and to top it all off, he’s wearing chinos.

_ _

You step aside to let him in, and you watch him instantly kick off his dress shoes.

_ _

“I don’t know what kind of look you were going for, but you’re pulling it off nicely.” You comment. You probably should’ve put more effort into your outfit, now that you think about it. You’re just wearing the same clothes as earlier, and though it isn’t a bad outfit, it’s probably a bit too casual for such a monumental moment as this.

_ _

“I’m not sure either.”

_ _

You close the door and lock it, and when you turn back to Shane, his horns, tail, and wings are just. There. You notice, now, the holes cut in the fabric of his clothes to accommodate his demonic features when they’re there.

_ _

“Make yourself at home there, pal.” You joke, reaching up and flicking one of his horns. It’s a playful gesture, and in truth, a bit of an excuse to touch him. He doesn’t seem to mind though, instead flicking you right back in the same spot.

_ _

“Oh, I am. Hey, is that pizza?” his tail raises like a dog’s would, and you laugh.

_ _

“It sure is. Help yourself, we’ve got some chatting to do.”

_ _

He grabs two plates, and heaps them both full with slices of pizza. You sit on opposite sides of your coffee table, and you waste no time getting into it.

_ _

“Alright, dibs on first question!” he states while your mouth is full, and you let out a muffled cry of protest that he waves away. “So, you seriously work at a, what, a paranormal shop?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you in distaste.

_ _

“Oh hush! You don’t get to play skeptic with me, you’re a demon!” 

_ _

“This is true.” He shrugs, and his wings flex with the movement. You don’t allow your eyes to follow.

_ _

You want to ask him about something serious, maybe about how he managed to teleport you hundreds of miles away all those years ago, but just seeing him, being near him, and laughing with him is so much nicer. You missed this. 

_ _

“Alright, my turn.” You tap your chin, as if you need to think about what to ask. “Here’s something: you make a living as a demon in plain sight who senselessly mocks a believer?”

_ _

“Easy money, baby!” he cackles, and you can’t help but smile, because how endearing is that? A demon whose living is made by working at BuzzFeed and pretending not to believe in himself. He’s got a good sense of humor, you have to give him that.

_ _

“What about you? A witch working at a fake witchcraft shop. Can you say irony?” 

_ _

You shake your head playfully, and correct him. “It’s really not even witchcraft, just fake tarot readings and herbal teas. The witch pun was simply poor taste on the owner’s behalf.”

_ _

He shrugs again, and oh, there go those wings. In some places on the back where they used to be smooth and leathery, there’s deep brown fur, thick and slightly raised. It’s only towards the beginning of his wings, up by his shoulders. How did you not notice that sooner? It looks soft, and now his wings really do look like that of a bat’s.

_ _

“My eyes are up here, you know.” He says, and though he’s playing it up to sound haughtier, you can tell he’s just a hint cocky by the shine of gratification in his eyes; by the skewed smile on his face. You don’t let him phase you, not yet at least.

_ _

“Maybe if you’d stop flapping those things all around my home, I’d be less inclined to stare.” You challenge, but the pull of a grin on your cheeks drains away any and all seriousness.

_ _

He’s staring at you, and you’re staring right back. Greasy, pizza stained paper plates sit between you on the coffee table, but Shane doesn’t bother to move them before extending one of his wings across it.  _ Flick, whip, flick, _ goes his tail.

_ _

“Well, I suppose if you’re going to ogle so much, you might as well get a better look. Take a picture, why don’t you?”

_ _

That gets you, because it’s a clear invitation, but  _ to what _ you aren’t sure. You’re stuck between asking, and continuing on with this bit; keeping things light or letting the anchor sink into unfamiliar waters.

_ _

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. A picture would never be the same as the real thing, this I know.” He laughs, but there’s a small strain in the sound. He’s waiting for something, and you are too, but the problem is that you’re waiting on yourself to do it.

_ _

For a moment, you’re both sitting there and stewing in your own hesitation. He still has his wing stretched out, inviting you to do something, and you still don’t have your mind made up over the significance of slapping your hand onto it and feeling just how soft the brindled fur and smooth skin is.

_ _

His wing twitches slightly, and your paper plate flutters to the floor, landing face down with a tiny  _ thwap. _

_ _

You reach your decision and lay your hand on the wing, a steady petting motion that you run along the edge of the leathery skin up to the patches of fur, where it stays.

_ _

You’re leaning forward and up, over the coffee table. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but worth it to satiate your curiosity. The fur is soft and nearly unbearable warm.  _ Hot like Hell. _

_ _

“Do you… want to come over here?” You ask tentatively, aware of the slight implications and wishing you were uncaring of them. He nods and draws his wing back in so he can maneuver around the edges of the table over to you. You hear him hiss under his breath a few times when he catches his sides against a corner, but he’s overall triumphant. He settles beside you, and there’s that pause again. You take a deep breath, and allow yourself to be bold. You’ve waited too long.

_ _

“Let me see your horns.” It’s a question disguised as a command, and Shane answers by obediently lowering his head.

_ _

“Don’t take too long, you’re so short that my neck will break before five minutes of this angle.” You swat his shoulder playfully, but quickly change your focus.

_ _

Curved and curled to sharp points are his horns, the remnant scarring of a broken halo leaving grey lines like lightning carving halfway down the base. They aren’t deep; healed over after so many years, but they’re undeniably present. You trace a finger over the notches, starting from the bottom and working your way up to the tip, slowly circling around and around the subtle curves.

_ _

Shane remains still, head bowed, but you know he’s attentive. His fingers fidget in his lap, and his tail remains still on his thigh.

_ _

It’s silent, but a silence of the relaxed sort. You move on to his other horn and repeat your motions, and Shane stays still and lets you. It’s a slow thing, you’re taking your time. You can recall these same horns bathed in strong firelight, not nearly as healed. You can recall how jagged he’d been, ripped and broken and bleeding all over, sharp to anyone’s touch, even his own. He’s rounded out now, grown softer to the world where others have grown harsher.

_ _

You don’t want to say you called it, but really, you did. He is the exception to the law of demons being evil. He is the exception to most things, truly.

_ _

From the tip of his horn, you go straight down, and dive your hand into his wild fluff of hair. You ruffle it, and don’t acknowledge his scoff.

_ _

“Wow, you just took hundreds of years’ worth of tension and shoved it.” He murmurs, and you, rather boldly, grab one of his horns and lift his head to face you, nearly nose to nose.

_ _

“Is that a complaint?”

_ _

You don’t just hear him swallow, you  _ see _ that shit.

_ _

“I’ll take that as a no.”

_ _

You keep your gaze locked on his, and if only fireplaces were more common nowadays, because that blazing light would make for a hell of a background right now. You feel the disturbance in the air near your knee as his tail sweeps and flips with interest, and that just spurs you on to go through with that nagging urge in the back of your mind.

_ _

It takes hardly anything to push past the two inches of air between you. A quick, chaste press of your lips to his. He lays one of his (huge) hands atop yours, and his skin is burning in the best way, 

_ hot like Hell  _

_ hot like Hell  _

_ hot like Hell. _

_ _

Shane pressed in further, and as great as this could be, it’s too soon. All you have to do is lean back a bit, and he gets the memo.

_ _

“Sorry.” It was a light kiss, a brief one, but he’s out of breath all the same. Eyes are wide; hands are gripping yours.

_ _

“Don’t be.” You take in a huff of breath and allow your cheeks a moment to cool. Shane waits patiently, almost expectantly.

_ _

“I just can’t believe you work at  _ BuzzFeed _ .”

_ _

His laugh is reminiscent of crackling fire and first words over warm tea. His eyes are brimming with mirth, shining browns that match him entirely. You think back to how you found him, scattered and loosened white feathers against blistering pale skin.

_ _

This is much better.

_ _

“Out of all of the things to get caught up on…” he shakes his head.

_ _

“So, I’ve gotta ask.” He looks up at the change in tone, and you know there are probably better ways of doing this than just switching topics on him, but this is much simpler than thinking about what to do. “You were the demon that scratched Ryan, right?”

_ _

Guilt, guilt, guilt. 

_ _

He doesn’t answer, because you already know.

_ _

“Was there, like, any reason?” you don’t want to accuse him, but after meeting Ryan, you can’t quite piece together why he was scratched, what with the vague-at-best location details. Knowing that it was his own personal demon made a bit more sense, but you still aren’t sure of what pushed Shane to do it. He’s far from a violent person, and you doubt that Ryan would be the first on his list if he was.

_ _

“The details don’t matter. I was being grouchy and unreasonable. I didn’t really want to hurt him, y’know? I just wanted to freak him out, and it’s always those ‘ooh, 3 scratch marks!’ stories that get him.” Shane keeps Ryan’s comment about you to himself. Ryan didn’t know, and you don’t need to, either. 

_ _

“That’s a dick move.”

_ _

He nods agreeably. “It is.” 

_ _

And really, where does one go from this point in conversation? A delicate transition from talking about ones mistake?

_ _

“Well, I’m gonna kiss you some more if that’s alright.”

_ _

“Hell yeah!”

__   
  


~~~~~~

__   
  


You wake in your bed, and you’re not alone. 

_ _

Allowing yourself to fall asleep in your clothes from the previous day was a bad idea, you find as you blink yourself into consciousness. You feel stiff and stale, and you groan aloud upon remembering that you slept wearing a bra.

_ _

“Hmmn, you good?” Shane mumbles from beside you, barely awake.

_ _

You nestle back into your pillow and groan once more. However, it seems sleep doesn’t want you back just yet, because your neck twinges at the angle, and you jerkily lift your head up. Your eyes are unfocused, and you feel just the slightest bit dizzy. 

_ _

The red numbers 9:37 A.M glow on your alarm clock, and you hum softly. Beside you, Shane squirms a bit. He yawns and stretches, his wings expanding and then falling closed again with a silent  _ whoosh _ . One of them ends up over you, and you don’t complain.

_ _

“Morning.” Shane mumbles, smiling squintily. You roll over to face him and return it. He’s ruffled from sleep, his ridiculous outfit from yesterday wrinkled but intact, even the jacket. His hair is a mass of cowlicks, an untamed sea of brown encircling his horns.

_ _

“Right back at you.” You sigh. “You have to work today, right?”

_ _

“Oh shit!” he leaps out of bed and scrambles out of your room, and you’re inclined to laugh. “I’m gonna use your shower if that’s ok!” you hear from down the hall, and you simply shake your head and move to the kitchen to start on some breakfast.

_ _

Once he gets out of the shower and re-dresses himself in yesterday's clothes (truly the most demonic thing he’s ever done) he’s greeted to a bowl of cereal and some tea. Far from fancy, but a breakfast nonetheless. He smells like your soap and shampoo.

_ _

He’s going to be late for work, but he takes his time eating, and you find a sense of pride in that. He’s in no rush to leave.

_ _

“Hey, so,” he falters. 

_ _

Shane seems flustered, though you can’t really even fathom anything worth being blushy over this soon after waking up. “Yeah?”

_ _

“Ryan and I, we’re wrapping recording for this season up soon.” He stops there, and you nod your head curiously, waiting for him to continue. “Then, we’ve got true crime. I was thinking, if he’s cool with it, maybe you could guest star in a few episodes?”

_ _

He’s avoiding looking into your eyes, staring into his mug instead, the coward. Quite frankly, he’s lucky you’re honored at the offer, otherwise you’d tease the hell out of him for his timidness in asking you.

_ _

“Well, so long as Ryan wouldn’t mind, I’d be honored.” You finish off your tea and stand. “Now, get out of my house and go help Ryan work on Unsolved before he starts getting ideas about where you’ve been.” 

_ _

A quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, and he’s out the door. You’re too blissed out to wonder about just what you two are or what you will be. Instead, you simply water your plants and send Ryan a meme, and a text:

_ _

_ Btw, Shane’s not a demon. _

_ _

After all, he thinks he was your friend first, and being too clingy too quick with Shane could start unneeded drama. In return, Ryan sends you a text about some sports team or other who lost last night, and a  _ cool, thx _ .

_ _

You let your phone drop, until it buzzes a few hours later. Shane.

_ _

_ Come over to my place next time?  _

_ _

_ Picture _

_ _

Curiosity piqued, you open it, and FUCK!

_ _

** _OBI?????_ **

_ _

** _YOU’VE HAD OBI THIS WHOLE TIME???_ **

_ _

** _Give me your address, I want to see my little bastard this instant_ **

_ _

You have no doubt that things will turn out okay.

__   
  
  
  
  


::BONUS::

_ _

“Shaaane…”

_ _

“Mmnf?”

_ _

“It’s your turn to make breakfast.”

_ _

He groans and shakes his head, the friction against his pillow making a light  _ swish _ -y noise.

_ _

“Get up, hellspawn, I want pancakes.” 

_ _

He groans again, but rolls over to face you, squinting in the sunlight that’s breaking through the blinds in beams.

_ _

“If you want breakfast, you’re gonna have to stop calling me that.” He says, and you roll your eyes.

_ _

“If you’re gonna be such a big baby, I’ll just cook for myself and let you starve.”

_ _

He chuckles, and scooches a bit closer until he’s squeezed up against you, your head tucked under his chin. You press even closer and reach an arm up, tugging your fingers through his hair briefly before settling on gripping one of his horns and idly thumbing at it.

_ _

“What  _ is _ it with you and my horns? Is this some sort of weird fetish?” he jokes, and you snort.

_ _

“You wish it was. I just think they’re neat. They’re all swivel-y, like Twizzlers or something.”

_ _

“Or something?”

_ _

“I don’t know, like that twisty pasta?” you shrug, and feel him shake his head above you, his stubble scratchy against your forehead.

_ _

“You need to go back to bed, you sound like Ryan when he hasn’t slept in two days and we’re on location.”

_ _

“You’re only trying to silence me. You know I’m right.”

_ _

You don’t see it, but you know he rolls his eyes. He moves away from you and stands, hissing at the cold tile against his bare feet but recovering quickly.

_ _

“Hey, wait-!” you start to complain at the loss of your personal heater, but he whips around and holds up a finger to hush you.

_ _

“Do you want pancakes or not?” 

_ _

You sigh, but clamber out of bed after him and into the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want me to write something else? 
> 
> Hate my writing? Want to cyberbully me? 
> 
> Find my tumblr here: https://2-fandom-2-furious.tumblr.com/
> 
> Comments and kudos are also welcome, of course


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